Chapter 39 Now

When I blink awake, I'm not in bed.

Not even on the couch.

Disoriented, I roll onto my back, only to feel the press of cold, hard tile beneath my shoulder blades.

The bathroom. I spent the night in the bathroom again. Overhead, the bright bulbs over the sink all but blind me. I push to sitting, and then, with one hand on the edge of the counter, pull myself all the way up.

Big mistake.

My vision tilts. I lower myself back to the floor as my stomach threatens to empty itself. Something smells. Me? I smell, and I smell horrible. The remnants of already vomiting, of perhaps not making it to the toilet on time. I exhale, and hot tears stain my cheeks. I feel like one of my wineglasses, fragile, like I could shatter into a million pieces.

I try to climb to my feet again, desperate for water to quench my dry mouth, to get the acrid flavor of bile out of my teeth. I rinse, spit, and take big gulps of cool water. Eventually, I turn the faucet off and look up to meet my gaze in the mirror.

Jesus Christ.

I barely recognize myself. Smeared makeup, blotchy skin, hair awry. I'm pretty sure the speckles over my sweater are vomit. I turn the shower on hot, not bothering to strip before I step in. The burning water temperature makes me gasp, but I let it get to the point that it's unbearable before I turn it down a notch. Then I strip and reach for a body sponge, adding eucalyptus bodywash and slowly scrubbing every inch of myself.

I'm disgusting.

And I'm disgusted with myself.

Somewhere in the midst of trying to make myself feel clean again, normal again, I suddenly remember.

Last night. Wine. Sarah.

I told her everything.

And she said… I gulp back another round of nausea threatening to spill forth. She said she saw Rebecca following me. I lean on the wall, the shower beating down on me, considering the implications. Considering the relationship she must have had with Gabriel. The fact he's been stalking me. Or she has. Or maybe both of them.

I scrub at my face until it hurts.

Eventually, I turn off the water. Somewhere in my apartment, my phone chimes, then chimes again. Then a third time. I tense with each notification, heart rate climbing and climbing, wondering who's so desperate to get a hold of me. I wrap myself in a towel—a towel that smells, that needs to be washed. I toss it on the ground and open the linen closet to grab a fresh one. But it's empty. My pulse climbs higher. I don't even have a clean towel. I retrieve the dirty one and wrap it around my body, pondering what else I've forgotten to do. What else I've missed in this haze I've been living in.

My phone is hidden between couch cushions. The only reason I find it is that another text comes through. I breathe with relief when I see who it is—Sarah, checking on me. She's already sent two messages.

And then

I quickly tap out a response, hating that I've made her worried when she's been so kind to me.

Then I swipe to my email.

There are two from Gabriel.

Both empty, except for the subject line.

The first one reads:

We need to talk.

The second came in ten minutes later:

I'm serious. Call me.

In my head, his words are not kind. Are not a polite ask. They're a curt demand. Sarah's warning comes back to me. She's worried. She thinks I need to be careful.

I realize, I think I do, too. And it's time to do something about it.

"Detective Green, please."

The officer at the front desk looks at me over her glasses. "Name?" she asks. "And what's this about?"

"Meredith McCall." And because the woman shows no recognition of the name, I add, "Connor Fitzgerald's wife."

At that, her eyes widen. "Take a seat, please. I'll see if he's available."

I pick a chair in the corner, putting my back to the wall. A second after I sit, I realize it's a defensive posture. Something I watch for in my patients. My eyes linger on the door. I watched behind me the whole walk here, keeping an eye out for Gabriel, for Rebecca. I glance down at my phone, and he's emailed again. Just a subject line, like before.

Can I come over?

I tense and look up, hoping to catch sight of Detective Green. A clock ticks above the front desk, that same tick-tick-tick of my old clock. For the briefest moment, I can understand how my patients become delusional. How they start to think even a clock is out to get them. My breath shudders as I exhale and turn away from the damn thing. I wish the detective would just get here already.

The door opens. And he stands in front of me, hands tucked in his cheap suit pockets, a patient look on his face that he probably thinks is a smile. But it's not, not really.

"Dr. McCall, how can I help you?"

I look up at him but say nothing.

His brows furrow as he stares at me. "Are you all right?"

"No."

Indecisiveness flashes across his face, but he gives a little wave. "Come on back, Dr. McCall. Coffee? Water?"

"Water, thanks."

A minute later, we're tucked into a gray cubicle. A few old photos are pinned to the wall, but otherwise it's neat, clean. A single coffee mug, a plastic bottle of water, a notepad, a pen, and a computer.

He takes the seat behind the desk and splays his palms open. "What's going on?"

My trembling fingers touch the plastic water cup. I've rehydrated and scrubbed and put on clean clothes, but the residue of last night—of these last months—still clings to me. I wonder if I'll ever feel normal, like myself again. Maybe someday. When this is all a memory. Maybe there's even still time to meet someone new. To have a family. I can almost see it, a flicker of light in a world that's felt like twilight for a long time now.

I take a slow, deep breath before looking him in the eyes. "I need to get a restraining order against someone. Him and his…" I search for the right word. "Ex-girlfriend? They've been stalking me. Following me out on the street. They know where I live. I think. A few months ago, I came home to my apartment door open. No one was inside, but someone had been. I know it." I try to think of how to explain that Rebecca became my patient, I assume, to get close to me. Probably Gabriel did, too. But I decide to leave that part out, at least for now. It would mean breaking patient confidentiality. I've read the American Medical Association's Code of Ethics multiple times over the last few days. A doctor may break confidentiality when a patient threatens to inflict serious physical harm on a specific, identified person and there is a reasonable probability that the patient will carry out the threat. Or when a crime is likely to occur. Neither Gabriel nor Rebecca has made any threats. I couldn't even tell Detective Green if Gabriel had told me he'd murdered his own wife, unless he also threatened my life or someone else's, and I thought he might actually do it. But they've followed me, outside of our sessions, outside of when I've treated them as a physician. And stalking is a crime. So I can report their following, but not disclose that they are patients or anything that was said during our sessions. I'm well aware how thin the line is I'm straddling.

Detective Green's frown deepens, but I can tell I have his full attention. "Who?"

I take another breath, another attempt to calm my nervous system. "Gabriel Wright."

The detective's eyes go wide. "Gabriel Wright? The man whose family…" He shakes his head. "When did this begin? Can you be more specific about what he's doing?" He pulls out a pad of paper and scribbles notes as I answer his questions.

"And what interactions have you had with him? Has he initiated all of them, or have you initiated any?"

I press my lips together, answering as truthfully as possible. I tell him what I can, about feeling eyes on me, hearing footsteps behind me. But again—I can't tell him he's a patient. I also won't tell him Gabriel and I slept together, because that is yet another thing that can get me in trouble. There's so much I can't say. I also realize the irony of me sitting here asking for a restraining order against a man who, a few months ago, might've had grounds to get one against me because of my stalking. But my intentions were never to harm; just the opposite, really. And I have no clue what Gabriel's intentions are.

By the time I've answered all of Detective Green's questions, he's leaning back in his chair in a way that tells me that there's probably not enough to get a restraining order. I squeeze my hands into fists, almost ready to say the rest—that Gabriel and Rebecca both just happened to come to me for therapy. But instead I move on and explain how Gabriel followed me on one of my dates, interrupted in the middle of it. And how I went walking the other night, and he appeared out of nowhere, stopping me. None of it is untrue. I just leave out the part where I was excited to see him, where I went back to his apartment and we had sex.

"I don't know what to say, Dr. McCall. This is highly unusual. And seeing someone around town—especially in Manhattan—I mean, of course you'll recognize him, but that doesn't mean he's stalking you."

My breath catches. I need more. I have to tell him more.

"His ex-girlfriend. Like I said, she's stalking me, too."

"How do you know?"

"My assistant has seen her following me. She's come to my workplace. She's followed me." I swallow, trying to think of what more I can say. "I don't feel safe. I want restraining orders against both of them."

"Well, we can try." Detective Green scribbles more notes. "Though I have to tell you, I'm not hearing any specific threat to your safety. And for some reason, I feel like you're not telling me the entire story, Dr. McCall."

I blow out a jagged breath and nod. "There are things I can't say, because I'm not permitted. If you can read between the lines…"

He squints at me. "Can't say, not won't? So this has to do with doctor-patient confidentiality, then?"

I try to keep my face as impassive as possible. "I can't say."

He frowns and pulls open a drawer. "All right. Well, there are some forms to fill out. I'll bring it to the DA and then a judge will review it. Can you tell me the girlfriend's name?"

Again, I hesitate, but I have a right to protect myself.

"Rebecca Jordan."

The detective writes it down, but halfway through her last name, he goes still.

"Why does that name sound familiar?" he murmurs, staring down at it. He finishes writing, blinks, and then looks up at me. "Hang on a sec." He stands, goes to a file cabinet, and pulls the middle drawer out. He skims through what looks like a hundred files. I watch, confused, wishing he'd give me the forms already so I can get this over with. I'm itching to get out of here. To get home.

Finally, he settles back in his chair, flipping through papers. He runs a finger down a form filled out in black ink, and again goes still.

He looks up.

"There obviously wasn't a trial, so the only time I came across the name was when I took the witness's statement and later when I typed it up. Which was a long time ago now. That's why it only rang a vague bell."

"Witness?" I say. "I'm confused."

Detective Green turns the paper in his hand to face me and points to the middle of the page. "Rebecca Jordan was the witness who saw your husband's car hit the Wrights."